


The Most Important Trap

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Eroticized smoking, F/M, Facials, Fingerfucking, Light Dom/sub, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smoking, Smut, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, holy lol there's a beards (facial) hair tag I am never not using this now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Iskia Lavellan is in a particular sort of mood, and waits for Blackwall's arrival to spring a very particular sort of trap on him. Sexy times ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Important Trap

Iskia is reclining at her desk, hair coiled atop her head and wrapped with a towel. Her bare feet rest atop a pile of papers, a glass of old whiskey sitting by her knee. A book sits open across her thighs, and a long-stemmed clay pipe dangles from her left hand. She wears a dressing gown coloured like sparkling wine, belted tight so the satin hugs her curves even in this position.

She lifts the pipe, wraps her lips around the mouthpiece, and slowly inhales. Red stains the lip as she draws the pipe away. Iskia breathes out a slow coil of smoke, away from her and up. Like this, Blackwall finds her. He just watches her from the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing. And he smiles. "Do you ever stop trying to seduce me?"

Smoke flows from Iskia's nostrils, and she says, husky and dark, "You're not getting used to it yet, are you?" Her tongue flicks around the lip of the pipe, stopping just short of her lip prints. She reaches with her free hand for her glass, lifts it to drink.

"I hope I never do," he says, and pushes away from the railing. Only then does Iskia sigh theatrically and close her book. She sets it on the desk. She waits until he can see the red of her toenails before she slips them from the desk. The robe parts at the neck just a bit, showing a black flash beneath. Just like that, he inhales, holding the breath between his teeth.

Iskia finishes the pipe, then drains her drink as smoke curls within the glass. The earrings in the tips of her ears, water-clear moonstones, catch the lamplight, reflecting rainbows within. She rises when he reaches the desk, and smiles. She always knows the effect she will cause. He leans forward over the table, takes the end of the towel between his fingers. She smiles to him, and he unwraps her hair, lets it all down. Blackwall tosses the towel onto the floor, starts bringing her damp hair down with his fingers. It falls like an inkstain onto her shoulders.

She makes a low noise, then reaches out, sliding her fingers through his beard. Then she smiles, and in a flash she is on top of her desk, one knee rumpling a pile of paperwork. She grips his beard tighter, and pulls his head to hers. He makes a sound at that, but it just opens his mouth, and when she kisses him, her tongue works into his mouth, stroking up his. She tilts her head, pressing the kiss harder, deeper. Iskia makes a faint, uncontrolled grunt into his mouth as she devours the taste of him. Blackwall's hands come to her waist, squeezing and tugging her closer, not enough to unbalance her.

When Iskia breaks the kiss, she draws her head back inch by inch, tongue curling in the air to break the thread of saliva between their mouths. She whispers, "I like your timing," and she finds that it is true. She needed that kiss, just as she needs so much more. She releases his beard, but both hands grasp handfuls of his shirt. "I'll let you ask for something in return, to thank you."

"Anything?" he asks, hands sliding up to stroke her breasts through dressing gown and night-dress. Her back arches, and she thrusts her chest into his hands. Her breath catches, then comes out sharply onto his face.

"Harder," Iskia breathes. In any other woman's voice, it would be a request, a plea. But Iskia never begs. She never asks. In her smoke-filled voice, it can only be a command. "Make me feel it. Anything. Within reason."

He squeezes now, hands slipping in the silky fabrics. "I don't want to hurt you," says Blackwall, even as the tighter grip makes her gasp. Iskia tugs his shirt open, not bothering with the buttons. One pops off, lands on the desk, rolling before coming to a stop by her knee. She pulls his shirt off the rest of the way, shoving it to the ground.

"You're not going to hurt me," she says, leans her head in, and slowly licks his lips. "You know I'll say if you do too much. But _ask_ , before I decide to _take_  something from you, instead." Iskia slowly drags her nails down his chest, pressing hard enough to leave faint white marks buried in the hair. There is no doubt that she will do just that. And she knows just how hard she makes it for him to think, grinding her breasts into his hands so he can distantly feel her stiffening nipples, breath in his beard, teeth and tongue on his lips.

Still, Blackwall waits until the last possible second before he speaks. "I've decided," his voice soft on her lips. Iskia says nothing, but breathes hotter on his lips. He moves a hand from her chest, and claps it down on her backside, hard enough to make her jump. "What I _want_  is you down on your knees, with your lips wrapped tight 'round my cock."

Iskia laughs on his lips, the sound of honey and fire. "Are you sure about that? Mmn, with my mouth all full, how am I going to tell you when you can come...?" She spiders a hand down his chest, down his stomach, and not very far down his trousers at all. Even through them, he fills her hand, and she takes a gentle hold. He groans, as she breathes, "You could fuck my ass instead. Hard, and fast, fill it up so full I'm leaking seed for days." She punctuates the last with a squeeze, slow and just firm enough to make him loose a low groan into her ear.

"No," says Blackwall, after an agonized moment. He's hard in her hand, and he's already a bit flushed from her touch, her voice. He squeezes the offered ass, gripping it tight in his hand. But he says, "You told me to ask. I'm asking for what I want, right now."

She lets go, slides her hands back up his chest, and laughs, "Mmn, you never fall into any of my traps."

"I'm still here, am I not?" He reaches for her, and lifts her, pulling her from the desk and sets her standing before him.

"True," she says, and kisses him. She takes a step back, and reaches for the belt of her dressing gown. With a tug and a shrug, she lets it puddle around her, showing him the filmy black nightdress she has on underneath. It sticks to her skin, translucent where it clings. Blackwall's eyes drink her in, swiftly at first, then more slowly, savouring every inch of her. "On my knees, you say?" She tosses her head, lets the hair fall on her bare shoulders.

Blackwall's voice is hoarse when he says, "On your knees. Let me see that fire in your eyes." His hand lifts, fingers curl against her jaw as he strokes her cheek. She covers his hand with hers, feels the drifts of hair that curl up the back, feels the strength there. She smiles at the self-consicousness of his gesture; his fingertips off of her face, so the calluses, the hangnails, all of that doesn't catch on her smooth skin. But that roughness is what she wants, what she needs. She lifts his hand just so, uncurls his fingers, sets them on her cheek.

They smile to each other, before she sinks down onto her knees, finally undoes his pants. She ghosts her nails over the length of his cock, smiles when she sees him shiver. So hot beneath her fingertips. It's hard for her to wait, to hold herself back. But, oh, how she delights in teasing him.

"Maker, hurry up!" he exhorts her, and that is what she needs. She shifts her hands, curling it at the base of his shaft, and wraps her lips around his tip. He lets out a breath then, but doesn't give her the groan she wants until she lifts her gaze, golden eyes meeting dusty blue. Her lips squeeze tighter now, tongue swirling over the fat tip of his cock. Her Fade-touched hand gives his length a few tingling strokes that send his hands flexing at his sides.

Iskia plunges her head hard down the length of his shaft, tip butting right up against her throat. She doesn't take him that deep, not yet, instead uses her hand as a stop. One of Blackwall's hands lifts, tangles in her hair, holding tight, tugging, but not pulling. The tip of her tongue rubs, delights in a taste that is uniquely _his_  in a way nothing else can be.

She bobs her head then, hand moving just ahead of her lips. Her lips part just barely enough to give her tongue room to play over his skin, wrapping and curling all around. Blackwall's grip in her hair tightens, and she makes a low, wet noise around him. She has a certain fondness for this act: rarely is her command over his pleasure so very literal. And she likes it, likes the fullness in her mouth, the strain of her tongue as it dances around, a paintbrush with so little room to move. The strain of pressure at her throat. The challenge of keeping her teeth just far enough back. She never feels so shameless as she does in these moments.

If there is anything she needs, it is freedom from shame. Her lips squeeze as she plunges her head down, tongue writhing as she withdraws. Her head twists so she can leave no spot untouched; she will devour it all. She takes her head back so far he almost pops out of her mouth, but this way her tongue can work rings all around the head of his cock. She reaches with one hand, grabs hold of his backside, gets a good handful of cheek. She squeezes hard, uses it as leverage to work her head down even harder.

"My lady-- _Iskia_ \--" Blackwall groans, straining forward into her mouth. "Please, allow me--!" His breath is heavy, strained, gasping now. He takes hold of her shoulder, holding on for dear life as her head works expertly and she plies all the skills of her tongue on his bare flesh.

Iskia works her head a few more times, pressing him to the edge of forcing the issue. In a triumphant pull of her head, she lets it straight out of her mouth. All out of breath, she whispers, "Now."

Be it her command that drives him over the edge or just good timing, he does not hold it any longer. She gives him a couple more good pumps, but her face is right there to catch all the splatter. It lands across her cheeks, her nose, and she just smiles up at him. Iskia smiles, and then she makes a low laugh. She withdraws both hands, and trails a finger through the mess. "What shall I do with all this, I wonder...? You always have so much to give..."

Blackwall's breath is still heavy, but the strain is gone, when he says, "Iskia..." He looks at her, transfixed, watches her gather a fingerful of thick seed on the very tip, and suck her finger clean. She repeats it with each finger, until she devours every last drop. She smiles up to him a moment more, then rises back to her feet. "You're so much better than I deserve."

Iskia kisses him with her sticky lips, and says, "If I hear that one more time from you, I think I'll have to take responsibility for what you deserve, too, hmm?" Her fingers play up his sides, taking in the goosbumps she raises. "But, mmn, we both got what we wanted, but I think I need a little more... come, sit." She slides an arm around his waist, tugs him toward the couch, giving him a moment to step free from the tangle of his pants.

"What we both wanted, ah?" says Blackwall, letting her press him into a seat. She drapes herself across his lap, arms curling around the back of his neck. "You never cease to amaze me." He kisses her then, slow and soft, lips lingering atop hers.

"Mn, is it that much of a surprise? I like doing that," Iskia presses her cheek into his beard. "I-- enjoy every bit of you. And I enjoy doing _all sorts_  of things." She makes herself comfortable across his lap, and reaches for his hand. "Right now, though, I think what I enjoy is your hands. You're so _good_  with them, mm?" She draws his hand up beneath her nightdress.

He takes the direction easily, hand slipping up between her thighs. "I've just never known a woman like you before. Is that so hard to imagine?"

Iskia curls closer against his chest, one leg slipping a bit wider to give him more room. When she feels his rough finger slide over her slick lower lips, she gasps into his beard. "It's not," she says, shifting, pressing her hips more to Blackwall's hand. "One of me is more than enough. But-- ahh, yes, yes, keep that up!"

Blackwall rubs with his finger a little more, then slips the tip just between her lips, wetting it, stroking up and down where they part. "But? I've never been with a woman who got so wet after getting it all over her face before." Then he gives her a devilish smile, and asks, "Are you going to tell me to put it in?"

She laughs and squirms against his chest, toes curling and flexing against the couch cushion. "You're terrible, you're terrible," she gasps. "Oh, hurry up and put it in already. You like when I sit on your face, don't you? Me, I like the look on your face. And, nn, I like the taste. No, I like _your_  taste. I never did before you, really. But you, you're-- different. You say it about me, but I've never known a man like you."

His finger plunges up into her. Her back arches, and she gasps, chest pulling right up to his. "One of me is too much, too," he curls his free arm around the small of her back, letting her lean back against it. Blackwall works his finger shallowly inside her, making a low sound of his own as he looks down at her face. His hand shifts, grinding his thumb against her clit. He leans in, bites the tip of her ear when she gasps, tongue playing on her earring.

Iskia gasps into his beard, shifts her arm, holds on tighter. "Don't stop," she whispers between heavy breaths. "Don't ever stop." Her hips press upward some, grinding onto his fingers, squirming, seizing every bit of sensation he has to offer her there. "One of you is perfect."

Blackwall works a second finger in beside the first, deeper inside her, more force to those quick, slick thrusts. His thumb grinds harder, digging in at her clit when she throws her head back and lets out a moan. She rocks in his lap, taking gasping breaths. His fingers curl just so at the apex of each motion, pressing hard. Iskia's sounds shift when he starts with that, turning to thin whines coming from somewhere out the back of her nose. "This once, I won't argue," he whispers, and kisses up her arched neck.

Those insistent noises grow harder, thin, very nearly squeals. Iskia's voice comes undone as he works his fingers inside her, curling and pressing, almost beckoning. She does plead with him now, "Don't stop, don't stop, please, don't stop...!" Her fingers scrabble at his back, clutching for something, anything to hold onto, nails scratching at his skin. She presses into his kisses, grinding her cheek, her neck into his beard.

He pulls her closer, arm squeezing her tight. His fingers work relentlessly inside her, and Iskia's whines growing higher, thinner, losing all her studied restraint. As Blackwall drives his fingers harder into her, he turns his head, looking straight down into her ecstatic face. "I'm not stopping," he whispers before he kisses her again. Swiftly, to not still her sounds.

And he doesn't stop, not when she trembles in his arms, and gasps out a moan of sheerest desperation. The slick sounds of his fingers driving into her are nearly drowned out by her voice now. Then, all at once, Blackwall pulls his hand back and Iskia lets loose an arcing burst of clear liquid, spurting out onto her dress and the couch. Iskia squeals, back going rigid, and he works his fingers back in, with more rapid, emphatic thrusts. The wet sounds coming out of her now are loud louder now, and she gives up another wet stream. Iskia writhes against him, gulping for air in the tiny moment before his fingers slam back in a third time. The liquid comes in fits and starts now, still spraying everywhere.

She finds her breath long enough to gulp, "Enough! Oh, oh, oh, Enough!" Blackwall eases his hand to a halt as she falls limply in his arm, chest heaving with the force of her breath. He holds her like that, lifts his soaking hand to his mouth, licks the taste of her clean.

"Was that, too, what you wanted?" he whispers, lowering his head to kiss her cheeks, her lips. She seems scarcely able to lift her face into that, but turns back against him, nestling into his arms.

"Maker," she says, with far too much effort for too little noise. "I didn't know you knew how to do that. Uugh, this couch, this dress will need to be cleaned." Her cheek slides, until it comes to rest on his chest.

"I have many talents," he says into her hair. "Let's get that off of you." And he lifts her enough to tug the wet dress up from between them, lifts her arms and puts them about his neck. In a slow, careful series of tugs, he gets it off of her, leaving her naked on his lap. He tosses the dress in a heap beside them.

Iskia leaves her arms around Blackwall's neck, keeps breathing on his chest. "That was lovely. Take me to bed?"

He nods, and shifts his arms, holding her close and rising. "Of course, love," he says into her hair. Like that, he carries her to bed.


End file.
